


It's Sad, But It Happens

by lex99



Category: Original Work
Genre: "Gay" Fiction, Angst, Drama, Friendship, LGBTQ, M/M, Original Fiction, Psychological (sort of), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lex99/pseuds/lex99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories of boys discovering a world that constantly shifts beneath their feet, struggling to piece together their shattered notions of sexuality and human relationships.</p>
<p>Part 1: The redhead who was stabbed at the tender age of nine and the loner who made the mistake of making friends—somehow their lives are intertwined. But for how long?</p>
<p>Part 2: The boy on the rooftop who sends paper airplanes to heaven and the incestuous brother who contemplates dying—their meeting is inevitable but so is their parting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The more I think about how I got here—standing in front of Ryan’s now empty apartment room, holding a copy of Pinocchio that we never really got to watch—the more I feel like my memories are part of someone else’s childhood, and all the things I said to him are someone else’s mistakes. I want someone to tell me my life story because I’m not sure how I turned out to be such a horrible person, but the only one who can do that is me and I don’t trust myself not to lie.

I ask the landlady if I could spend the night there, echoing what she just told me: “He already paid this month’s rent in full.” She looks at me like I’m crazy and I’m not about to tell her she’s wrong, but she only reminds me, as she’s unlocking the door, that waiting for someone who’s not coming home is stupid. The inside’s the same as if I had just left it this morning, except it doesn’t smell like cinnamon so I know he’s really gone. I walk over to his bookshelf and pull out a title at random. David Ebershoff’s _The Rose City_ —sounds like something he would read.

“He left all his things and said he’s going to keep mailing the money even if he’s not here,” the landlady tells me. “Crazy, I tell you. He also told me to let you, and only you, use this room.”

She leaves with a promise to have a copy of the key for me by tomorrow. This is when the sad truth sinks in: I’m alone again for the first time in nine years. _No_ , Ryan would correct me if he were here, _you’re lonely, not alone_. I’m also tired; the kind of tired that starts at the tip of my toes and works its way up. The DVD and the book in my hands suddenly feel too heavy to lift so I put them down on his bed, the sheets of which still carry the ink stains from a few months ago. That was when I kissed him.

“I’m not mad, but I want you to think about what you did,” Ryan had told me afterwards.

It’s hard to do that when the only thing on my mind is how sad everything is. This really shouldn’t be new to me because I’ve been sad for the first nine years of my life, granted the first two to three feel like they don’t exist because I have a hard time imagining myself crawling on all fours wearing a diaper. I don’t have baby pictures to convince myself; we were too poor back then.

“You should make friends, Carter,” Ms. Holly, my fourth grade Science teacher, once told me but I ignore her because I only know how to be alone.I think this is the time when everything took a turn for the bad.

You start noticing things when you’re alone, especially things you’d normally never make a conscious effort to see,like two male teachers who meet in your school’s parking lot every day. I see them because I eat lunch there. I eat lunch there because I don’t have friends. I don’t have friends because I’m a horrible person, though I won’t realize this until Ryan leaves me nine years later.

I see these teachers kiss before getting into a car and I count down the minutes till they come out. Sometimes they take half an hour, sometimes longer, and all the while I’m wondering why the vehicle keeps rocking back and forth. It’ll be a long time till I find out why, and I wish I could say this doesn’t affect my life at all.Things are never that easy.

There’s also this other kid around my age—the first natural ginger I’ve ever seen—who likes to eat in the opposite corner of the lot. His hair reminds me of autumn leaves during the late sunset, and it’s the first time I find human hair beautiful. He acts like he doesn’t see me watching him but I’m sure he knows, and I’m sure he sees the teachers, too.If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he comes there to watch them, but then I see his lunch box and I realize he’s the same as me—friendless. The kissing guys are just a bonus.

I’ll later find out his name is Ryan Derrington, but this will come much later. He doesn’t show much on his face even when he’s watching the two men make out.He’ll stay this way for half of the school year, then the teachers stop coming andRyan starts bringing this taller boy with him. His expression would always light up with a smile when they’re together. I keep watching from my usual spot and neither of them tell me to stop even when our eyes happen to meet. It’s the first time I’ve ever been interested in other people and the fact that nobody’s telling me to look awaymakes me think it’s a good thing. If only I’d known it wasn’t a good thing.

It’s lunch break on the week before winter break and I’m in our classroom dusting erasers because no one else is going to do it. I peek out the window long enough to see children on the quadrangle running northeast, towards the parking lot where I eat, while a handful of faculty members are running _away_ from it and trying to stop them. A head peeks through the glass panel in the room’s door. Ms. Holly comes inside and walks over to me with a weird smile on her face, like the ones I see on Joker whenever I watch Batman with my dad because he grew up watching it and apparently, so should I. I never liked that show. I never liked Dad, either, but that’s because I’m a horrible person.

“Carter, dear,” she says, her voice barely audible, “don’t leave this room, okay? You can eat your lunch here.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you later. Just promise me you’ll stay here.”

I nod and she leaves.

Ms. Holly lied; she never tells me about it. All she does is smile her Joker smile and make me hate her. I find out what happened from my classmates—a student was stabbed in the parking lot with a pair of scissors. When I ask them who it was, they didn’t know, but they tell me he had red hair. This detail keeps me from getting any sleep that night. The next day, I spend lunch in my usual spot but Ryan never comes, nor does his friend. In the spot where he usually sits are small, darksplotches on the ground. I’m sweating despite the cold December air and my eyes are heavy like I’m about to cry though I’m not certain why. I don’t eat that day.

When the holiday break rolls around, I ask my parents if I could visit the kid who was stabbed, still unsure if it was actually Ryan but convinced it would haunt me for the rest of my life if I just left it as it is. They exchange curious looks, maybe because I’ve never really asked them for anything before. Not even toys. I learned early that asking for things was selfish, but this was different. I didn’t just _want_ to see this boy, I _needed_ to. I was young, though; and I couldn’t really explain these sorts of things properly, so when they turned down my request, there wasn’t anything I could do but feel betrayed. This won’t be the last time I would hate my parents.

**-o-o-o-**

The only thing I wanted for Christmas was the chance to see him but I’ve stopped believing in Santa already so I know nobody’s going to grant that wish. In the second week after classes start again, I still spend lunchtimes alone in my little corner of the parking lot. Current gossip says the stab victim’s been discharged from the hospital, but I’m more worried about how I never see Ryanin his usual place anymore. I sometimes catch him lurking in the corridor on my way back to the classroom but he’s never with the friend who makes him smile. He’s gone back to being quiet and his hair’s black now (which is a shame), and this is when I’m finally convinced it _was_ him. I want to talk to him, tell him I wanted to visit during Christmas, but I always chicken out. It’s clearRyan doesn’t want to talk about it, and I’m not sure I’m tactful enough not to bring it up.

This’ll become a non-issue because I end up talking to him anyway but it’s not exactly how I would’ve wanted us to meet.

Ms. Holly’s explaining about mammals that live in the water and I feel the need to let out some water of my own so I ask to be excused. She tells me to wait because this is going to be in next week’s test and I don’t know how I’ll ever make it through life without knowingmale whales havethe same thing that’s hanging between my legs. They do, by the way, and they’re _huge_ , but Ms. Holly doesn’t tell us this. I find this out for myself a few years later. Please don’t ask why I was researching whale willies.

“Ms. Holly!” I whine.

“Oh alright. Don’t take too long, dear. We’re discussing bats next.” I’m sure she and her Joker smile are big fans of bats. Robins too, I bet.

I walk down the corridor and pass a pair of boys laughing. I catch one word—faggot—leave the larger of the two’s mouth before they disappear into the nurse’s office. I’ve heard my dad use the word several times before and though I’m too young to know what it means just yet, I’m sure it isn’t a compliment.

As I put my hands on the knob of the bathroom door, I can hear the faint sound of crying from the other side. I’m not sure if I should open it because if I were the one in there, I know I wouldn’t like it if somebody came inside and saw me. But I also remember the times my younger sister cries and I know she wants someone to be there with her when she does. This little decision will shape the next nine years of my life, and in the end I choose to open it. I don’t regret it, but now that I think about it, I have to wonder where I’d be now if I chose differently.

Inside I see Ryan on the floor, hugging his knees and trembling and I’m suddenly not feeling the need to pee anymore. When he notices me, his crying dies down into soft sniffles and he wipes at his tears furiously. He tries to stand up but groans and falls back down hard. I notice his right knee’s scraped and bleeding. There’s an awkward moment where we just look at each other not knowing what to do.

“Did you slip?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Someone pushed me. I’m okay, so go away.”

“You don’t look okay.”

“Leave me alone...”

“I don’t want to.”

He glares at me and I glare back. This goes on for about a minute until he gives up and I’m free to help him stand. He’s still sniffling and I remember all the times I couldn’t get my sister to stop crying. I had to call Mom and she’d hold her hand while stroking her head until she calms down. So I do this, too. At first Ryan looks at me like I’m nuts but he doesn’t really stop me so, like I always do when nobody stops me from doing something, I assume it’s okay. He smells like the cinnamon rolls my family ate during New Year’s Eve.

“Thanks,” he says and he sounds like he actually means it.

It’s my first time seeing him up close. He looks different with black hair, kind of like my sister’s dolls—beautiful yet disturbing at the same time.

“You’re welcome.”

This is when I work up the nerve to ask his name. We’re the same age, same grade, but different sections. It feels like the first time I’ve ever talked to someone and I keep fumbling over words, but he’s a patient listener and he never calls me stupid for stammering. He doesn’t recognize me as the boy who watches him from the parking lot and I prefer it to stay that way. Our hands are intertwined throughout the conversation, and I could’ve stayed that way all day but I remember we’re still in the middle of class. Making sure he can walk to the nurse’s office on his own, I say goodbye and it sounded a lot more final than I would’ve liked. I thought I saw him smiling from the corner of my eye but I think that’s just my wishful thinking.

I run into Ryan a few more times after that and he always has some sort of injury whenever I see him—bruises, scrapes, even a sprained ankle once. He gets quiet whenever I ask so I never bring it up, but I made a habit of bringing a handful of Band-Aids and some disinfectant I swiped from our medicine cabinet at home. He always thanks me for this, and very rarely he even smiles as I treat his cuts. This is the only time I ever get to see him smile.

Pretty soon we reach the point where it becomes natural to hang around each other. I manage not to mention the stabbing until he starts telling me little bits about it on his own, and though he doesn’tlaugh at any of my jokes or understand my love of milkshakes, I’m happy all the same. He’s my very first friend and the only one I’ll have till I go to high school.


	2. Chapter 2

My senior year rolls around and I become an even more horrible person.

I’ve been a member of the basketball team for three years now and my eyes always seem to catch on the guys in our class, on the muscles forming underneath the thin layers of fat on their arms, on the way their pants crease around the full of their crotches. I’ve probably been doing this for the past few years, but this is the first time I’ve caught myself. And then there’s Landon Chase, the one person who notices me staring. Or maybe the only one willing to point it out.

“Your eyes are looking hungry as always,” he teases once after practice, blindfolding me with his jockstrap. It’s his unused spare, thank God; though I have no idea why he even brings an extra one.

I elbow him in the gut and I’m released. “Buzz off, Landon. Go play with your girlfriend’s ‘pompoms.’ ”

He just laughs and punches my arm as payback. Landon’s the jock-est of jocks at our school and he dates the lead cheerleader. I know; go figure. He has sandy blond hair and deep blue eyes, and I always tell him how I envy his genes. I think blue eyes are beautiful.

“I think so, too,” he’d tell me. “Feel free to get lost in my eyes, Kenny,” he adds with a chuckle. He calls me Kenny because my last name’s Kennedy. No, I am not related to any president or that cop from the Resident Evil games. Just thought I should mention it.

I’m aware what my ogling guys means but it’s hard coming to terms with it. I’m constantly putting on an act, faking interest in sports and making lewd jokes about a woman’s body just so I can be “one of the boys.” I always go home feeling slightly disgusted with myself.

**-o-o-o-**

Landon calls a lot, mostly to talk about his problems. I guess none of the other guys are interested in listening to him complain about how his girlfriend won’t let him “get up her skirt.” He never says “sex” or “fuck” or other straightforward terms like that, and when I ask him about this, he says he’s just being polite. He knows it’s not going to be easy for me to experience it and he doesn’t want to make it sound like it’s an everyday thing I’m missing out on. I wonder if he’ll still say this if I told him I touch myself while thinking of him. Well, sometimes it’s him, sometimes it’s Ryan, and sometimes it’s the last shirtless guy I see in a magazine or something. If I haven’t mentioned it yet, well, I’m a horrible person.

Come weekends I see Ryan’s face and I’m reminded of why I turned out like this. I’m probably in love with him, but I don’t think he’ll ever notice (or care) because that’s just the way Ryan works. He’s changed over the years. He’s a lot more verbal now—maybe a bit too much, actually. He has venom in his tongue, and I’m probably the only one he hasn’t cussed at least once, which makes me feel a bit special.

We go to different schools but we see each other on weekends, working part-time jobs at a retro game center near my house (you know, places where you can still play arcade games) because we like to milk the fact that we’re old enough to _have_ part-time jobs

Ryan scowls at me as I walk through the doors of G-Spot. That’s the place’s name, by the way. It’s supposed to be short for Game Spot, but I just think the owner’s a closet perv. Don’t tell him I said that.

“You’re late. _Again_.” I try to look serious but my mouth’s a traitor because it smirks. Ryan looks cute in the G-Spot uniform, you see. “If our manager was half-concerned about doing her job, you’d be fired by now.”

“But she’s not. She’s at home, watching her taped episodes of Top Model and Project Runway, so nobody’s getting fired.”

He sighs. “You’re always too chill.”

“And you’re always too stiff. You’re like a boner that won’t go away.”

“You make the _worst_ metaphors!”

“That was a _simile_! I thought _you_ were the smart one.”

I can see the corners of his mouth curling up slightly before he looks away. This is the closest I’ll get to making him smile today. I like to challenge myself and see how much I can break his grumpy attitude. It’s less a game and more a goal—if I can’t even make him happy, what’s the point of being his friend?

“Whatever. Let’s just get to work.”

Mornings in G-Spot are terribly slow. Ryan and I usually just hang back behind the redemption counter (you know, where you exchange tickets for prizes), finding ways to kill our boredom without actually killing anyone. This is one of the few times I can scoot close to him without feeling awkward and I’m near enough to clearly see the sandalwood shade of his eyes. Growing up, I’ve become obsessed with learning how to draw, and it’s moments like this that I regret not bringing a sketchpad and a Staedtler pencil. Ryan’s face too beautiful to not immortalize on paper.

It’s also during these times that I get a good look at the faraway expression on his face and I remember he’s not like everyone else. He takes a day off once a month to see a psychiatrist and he probably takes in as much medicine as he does food. He always volunteers to do the inventory of the supply cabinet so he can secretly cry. I know this because I stand outside the door with a mop in hand to make sure none of the other workers go in, and when he comes out, I pretend I’m just cleaning. It’s harder to pull off than it sounds, honestly.

Ryan’s one of two people I can call a friend. Landon’s the other one but I wish I could see him more often, too busy being a jock and not getting laid. It’s not like I haven’t tried to get to know people, but in the end I’m always left feeling like it was a waste of time. I always end up doing something stupid that make people hate me, and I’ve just about given up on the idea of making friends at this point, let alone keeping the ones I do gain. I’m probably going to make Ryan hate me one of these days, and I’m not sure I can keep it together when that happens. Maybe I need a psychiatrist and some meds, too.

This is usually when I notice I’m absent-mindedly holding his hand. Take now, for example. It’s a weird habit I developed since that first time in the bathroom; I’m just really scared Ryan will disappear if I don’t hold on to him. It’s pathetic, really because I already know I’ll lose everything someday. Life is sad like that.

“Sorry, I was just thinking,” I say, hoping I’ve only been holding him for a few seconds, a few minutes at the longest. He’s probably used to this already but it doesn’t make it any less awkward.

When I try to let go, he squeezes my hand tighter, his fingers slipping between mine. I can’t help but notice how perfectly our hands fit together.

“Don’t sweat it. There’s still some time left to think.”

I don’t know what he means by this and I don’t get a chance to ask. He goes back to staring blankly at thin air, and this is when I’m reminded that Ryan was never like my sister’s dolls. He’s a _broken_ doll. That incident nine years ago took something from him and there’s no getting it back. I’m aware of how fragile the hand I’m holding is and it only makes me feel guiltier. If I had talked to him sooner, he’d never have met that stupid kid who stabbed him, and he’d be a normal guy living a normal life.

Then again, if I _had_ done that, I probably wouldn’t be holding him like this right now. The thought of this makes me sad.

**-o-o-o-**

Landon’s been calling less and less. When he does call, he says it’s not because he’s finally “getting some” from his girlfriend. He doesn’t want to talk about that anymore, really. He tells me he’s busy dealing with his brother, who’s emotionally unstable and extremely homophobic because of a childhood trauma. Sounds like someone I know. This, he also explains, is why he’s comfortable around me—he learned to get over his prejudice for gay people so he can help his brother recover. I think my respect for him went up tenfold after hearing this. I might have to stop thinking about him when I masturbate, but I won’t because I’m a horrible person.

“So, have any luck with your childhood crush yet?” he asks.

I might have told him a couple of things but I never mention the stabbing, or that Ryan needs a psychiatrist and pills. I know he’d understand but I’m not comfortable talking about it. The less I think about Ryan’s problems, the less real they seem.

“Not really. He’s kinda… hard to read.” You don’t know the half of it, Landon.

“Oh. That sucks. But maybe instead of you trying to understand him, why not get _him_ to try and understand _you_?”

“What do you mean?”

“Be more obvious. You’re not gonna get anywhere if he keeps thinking you two are friends and _only_ friends. I know a guy who sells this ‘medicine’ that’ll knock him out for...”

“Dude!”

“I’m kidding, stupid. I’d never drug anyone. But seriously, make a move already! Or are you gonna wait another nine years—when he’s happily married to a Playboy model—before doing anything?”

“I think you’re confusing your own taste in girls with Ryan’s.”

“I am?” He laughs.

It’s easy to forget Landon’s older than me. He tends to act more like a kid than I do even though he’s six years older than me. Yes, six. Landon stopped going to school after his junior year—he says “Shit went down in our family. Well, shit’s always going down in our family, but that one was the mother of all shit.” That’s all he’s willing to say on the topic but that’s enough for me. For a twenty-four-year old dude, Landon’s pretty cool and I’m glad we get along. He has his own group of friends whereas I’m still a loner, but he takes the time to hang out with me every day.

“Hello, Kenny? You there? Or are you jerking off to the sound of my voice? Is this what they call phone sex?”

“Shit, I could kill you... But then I’d miss you.”

“Aww, I’d probably miss you, too if, you know, I wasn’t dead and everything.”

“You’re going to be annoying all night, aren’t you?”

“Heck yeah.”

“Why do I even ask?”

**-o-o-o-**

“Carter, you’re an employee. You’re supposed to be selling tokens, not using them yourself.”

This is Veronica, one of our co-workers, and I often wish she didn’t exist. I also often pronounce the ‘r’ in her name with a purr. You know, Verrrrronica. This upsets her and, in turn, makes me happy.

“Shut up. I paid for these.” Not really.

“Boys,” she scoffs.

“Women,” I retort, loud enough that even Ryan, who’s selling tokens in the booth on the other end of the building, could probably hear.

Remember how mornings in G-Spot are slow and I can’t kill my boredom by killing Veronica? I like to pass the time by playing till noon, which is about when customers actually start pouring in. I have a bad habit of littering the scoreboards of the Pac-Man units with “Ryan <3.” It’s sort of creepy, I know. I don’t care. I think it’s also kind of romantic, like I’m dedicating the hard work to him, even though he’ll probably never see it and it’s not really hard work when you’re goofing off.

“You two are as friendly as ever,” Ryan comments when I walk up to the booth.

“Me and the she-troll? Not as friendly we are.” I try to make it sound like pre-sex pillow talk. He’s his usual deadpan self.

Veronica’s fast on the uptake, though. “Get a room, you two.”

“Get a life, you prude,” hisses Ryan. I keep forgetting he hates her, too. Our resident killjoy gets a clue and leaves us alone. She’ll probably be back sooner than we’d like, though. “You here for more tokens?”

“Uh no. Just came to bug you, really. Make room; I’m comin’ in.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything whenever I ask him for some free tokens, but I guess he already has too many things to worry about. He’s been especially bad at making eye contact lately. I notice he’s always in a sour mood and looking around like someone’s out to get him. I’m thinking he needs to go see his psychiatrist again, but I’m afraid to bring it up. I hate thinking there’s something wrong with him.

I hop in the booth with him. Behind it, we’re only visible from the chest up. Nobody will notice if I slip my arms under Ryan’s shirt, wrap them around his waist, melt from the heat of his skin against mine, and God I want to do this so bad but I settle for holding his hand again because this is the only thing I can do that won’t make him hate me. In the nine years I’ve known him, he always smells like cinnamon and I have to try very hard not to crack a joke about eating him. He’d hit me for sure. Ryan hits _hard_.

“Why do you always stick to me?” he asks, though he doesn’t sound like he minds. “You need to get a life, too.”

“Please don’t make me say why. And I don’t need a life; I’m fine with you.”

I don’t know what kind of face I make but he drops the subject and goes back to sorting the money. There’s a bruise on his arm, just above his wrist—he must have blocked a punch recently or something. Ryan’s the only nerd I know who likes getting into fights.  I’d tell him to stop but he’s been bullied all his life and there’s a part of me that thinks he deserves to fight back now that he’s able to.

“Forget what I just said, dude. I’m nuts,” I tell him.

“Glad you finally figured that out.”

“You ass.”

“Why thank you.”At least he’s well enough to be sarcastic.

A woman walks through the glass doors of the game center and plants herself on the nearest chair she could find. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy pony and her clothes—size small from what I know from being forced to shop for clothes with my sister—sag as they hang off her scarecrow body. She comes here during weekends to wait for what I assume is her son, ambushing him the moment he walks inside. They argue for a good half-hour or more after that until one of them gives up and goes home. It sometimes makes me think _my_ mom’s going to walk through those doors to drag me back home because I’m too “young” to be working. Except she’s been dead since I was twelve and it’d be scary if she actually shows up.

“You know I won’t always be here to babysit you, right?” Ryan tells me, his eyes fixed on the woman like he wants to tell her something. Probably wants to scold her for loitering.

I turn to him with one eyebrow raised. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I might, I dunno, slit my wrist and bleed to death one night. What then? You’re gonna be best buds with the plaque at my grave and hang out at the cemetery every weekend?”

“Stupid, don’t talk like that. You won’t kill yourself.” I wish I could sound more convinced. “You’re taking all these stuff so you _don’t_ kill yourself.”

“Don’t be so sure. The next one isn’t till three, so I can still be ‘normal’ for a few more hours, but nobody knows if I’ll cut myself after that. Not even me.”

“You won’t. And I think you’re normal even without the happy pills.”

“You always say that even when you don’t mean it.”

“Yeah, but I’m your friend. I’m _supposed_ to be a big, fat liar.”

“Except you’re not fat.”

“Thank God I’m not.”

“Amen to that.”

Right now he’s stacking coins, toppling the tower he made, and then stacking them again like a five-year old who found out his hands could do this for the first time. Too many maintenance meds, I guess. “I don’t know if I feel tired or alive. I wanna punch someone till they pass out then use them as a pillow only to notice I can’t fall asleep,” he once told me during a bad case of the jitters. I’m hoping he doesn’t start hitting me.

Our shift ends without Ryan cutting himself, punching someone, or crying in the supply cabinet. It almost makes me think he’s going to get better real soon, but I know these things take a lot of time and sometimes, there’s just no way to get better. I’m hoping that’s not the case with him.

The cold air nips at the exposed skin of my arms as I walk him to the bus station. It’s become a routine of ours to walk together on our way home from work, and it’s not unusual for us to take the longer route that winds around town. This way actually passes by my house, but we always pretend it’s someone else’s so I won’t have to say goodbye just yet. Ryan knows I hate being alone, and he knows I don’t really talk to what’s left of my family so going home is the same as being alone.

“Hey Cart, can we eat at that place again? You know, the one with those double-patty burgers?”

I just nod. Our feet don’t really care about my answer; they already know where they’re going to take us. He’ll make up excuses like this to spend more time together, and it’s these little things he does for me that make me think I’m special to him. Or maybe I’m just ego-tripping again.

In our usual burger joint, I watch Ryan wolf down his food and I probably have this creepy smile on my face because he eats like a kid and gets mayo all over his lips. I also have inappropriate thoughts about a different kind of mayo because I’m a horrible person.

On the table behind him are two kids—boys, maybe second or third grade—and their mother, her hands busy cutting two  large sandwiches into bite-size portions. She’s beautiful in a classic way. You know, when you look at photos of old people when they were young and you can’t help but think they look attractive despite the lack of Photoshop back then.  She’s probably old enough to be my aunt, but she looks a lot younger than that. Reminds me of _my_ mom. Died forty years old yet everyone I talked to at the funeral said she looked twenty. One of the lucky people who got good genes, I guess. Makes me wonder if I’ll age that way.

“You made a new one?” Ryan asks mid-bite.

“What new one?” He points to the wristband I’m wearing. “Oh. You noticed it? I thought I did a good job hiding it.”

“You did. It took me this long to notice, right? Wouldn’t have seen it at all if you didn’t adjust it every now and then.”

“Sorry, mannerisms. My hands are always looking for things to fiddle with.” I slip off the band to reveal a tiny dragon silhouette coiled around my wrist.

“Why hide it?”

“I forgot I was hiding it, honestly. It was just supposed to be till I get out of the house. My sister will kill me if she sees it. It’s just henna but she doesn’t give a fuck. A tattoo’s a tattoo.”

“Then tell her you wanna be a tattoo artist someday. I’m sure she’ll change her mind.”

“Nah, that’s suicide. Mom wanted me to be a normal kind of artist. You know, drawing portraits and logos and stuff. Sis was always the mini-Mom of the house and she hated tattoos even more than her. Now she’s the—what was your term, _de facto_?”

He nods as he sips his Coke.

“Right. She’s the _de facto_ Mom now that, you know, the original’s gone. She’ll cut off my hand if she sees this.”

Ryan sighs. “Too bad; you’re great at this. I hate it when people don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I hate it too.”

He pauses. “Then you’ll probably hate me, too.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. Just don’t hate me, okay? I’ll probably do something very stupid real soon.”

“If you cut yourself I swear I’ll kick your—“

“That’s not it, idiot! I’m just kidding about cutting myself. If I wanna die, I can do better than that.”

“Gee, thanks. Now that I know you’re a suicide expert, I can stop worrying.”

“Your sarcasm’s improving. Nice job.”

“I learned from the best.”

He smiles a sad smile when I say this.

When he finishes his burger and gets on his bus and I watch it drive away, my body gets a lot colder. The first time I told him about my fear of being alone, he said he read somewhere that there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely, that you can’t be lonely when you’ve always been alone. Ryan thinks I’m more afraid of being lonely, and I know this is true because I always feel sick when there’s nothing but empty air beside me where a Ryan Derrington should be.


	3. Chapter 3

Landon hasn’t called in a month. When I see him at school, he’s with his usual group of friends, cracking lame jokes that’s only funny to him like he always does. But when he leaves that group to hang out with me, he gets quiet to the point that I worry about him. He apologizes for this. He says he’s just tired of smiling and he knows I understand that even guys like him need time to be sad. The thing is I don’t know what’s making him sad and he won’t tell me, either.

“Don’t give me this shit, dude,” I tell him after basketball practice.We’re the last two people in the locker room, everyone else quick to go home since it’s a Friday. “It’s bad enough Ryan barely tells me things. Don’t start keeping secrets, too.”

Landon’s smile is sad like Ryan’s and his blue eyes lack their usual shine. “Sorry. Really, I’m sorry. But I’m _six_ years older than you, Kenny. I have more problems than you think, and some of them are just too… complicated to tell anyone.”

“Is this about your girlfriend again? ‘Cause I really think you deserve better.”

“Nah, I’m done with her. I know her type—sticks to popular guys so she can up her own status. I don’t know why I put up with her for so long. I am _such_ a nice guy.”

This is when he catches me off guard and pulls me into a hug. He says sorry about a dozen times and all I can do is hug him back. Landon’s never been the type to cry, and even now he doesn’t, but I can feel him trembling and fighting back tears.

“I am _such_ a nice guy,” he repeats, almost like he’s trying to convince himself it’s true.

“Yeah, you are,” I assure him. “You’re the nicest guy I know.”

My best friend wants to kill himself and my only other friend thinks he’s a bad person. Isn’t anyone getting their emotional needs met? I know I’m not. I can almost imagine the world’s saddest violin solo playing in the background and all I want to do is stomp that damn instrument to splinters because I hate being sad. I hate seeing my friends sad.

When he pulls away and calms down enough to start talking again, he promises to tell me his problems. Not now, but one of these days, before we graduate. He wants to make sure it’s not something that will make me hate him first. I just nod, wishing I could tell Landon I could never hate him, but I’m not _that_ naive. It’s so easy to hate someone it’s almost scary.

He calls me later that night and the first thing I tell him is how I missed the sound of his voice on the phone. He laughs.

“Are you hitting on me, Kenny? ‘Cause if you are, that’s pretty smooth.”

“I bet you’d like it if I did.”

“Oh ho ho. Someone learned how to be sassy. I like it.”

“But seriously, I’m glad you’re laughing again. I mean, if you need to cry you know I’m here for you, but I like it better when you’re smiling and laughing.”

“That’s it; you’re totally falling in love with me. I can smell it over the receiver.”

“The only thing you’re smelling is your own stinkin’ ego, you ass.”

“Touché. Man, I’m gonna miss teasing you like this when we graduate. It feels so close now. We only have a few months left.”

“Don’t talk like we’re never gonna see each other again after that.”

“It’s possible. I haven’t seen my old classmates in years. I’m not saying I want that to happen to us—you’re pretty cool and I love talking to you—but I just wanna be realistic. It happens. It’s sad but it happens.”

It’s sad but it happens, huh? I’ve never really thought about it, about the future. I haven’t even made up my mind whether to study art or get an athletic scholarship. I’ve heard a lot of stories about people regretting the decisions they made as teenagers for the rest of their lives. I don’t want to be one of those rumors.

“So,” Landon says, “if we ever lose contact after high school ends, I hope you don’t hate me or think I’ve forgotten about you.”

“Dude, stop talking like that. It’s like you’re saying goodbye. You know I hate goodbyes!”

“I know, I know, you’re more of a ‘see you later’ kind of guy. Sorry ‘bout that. Well, gotta cut this chat short. My dumb brother just texted—splurged all his money buying his girl gifts and now he can’t commute home. The things I do for that guy. Talk to ya again soon, Kenny.”

“Better make that _real_ soon.”

“Count on it.”

He’s a liar. He stops calling altogether and he never leaves his group of friends to hang out with me any more. For the first time since I’ve known him, I learn what it feels like to hate Landon Chase.

**-o-o-o-**

Winter break comes and Dad takes my sister to visit his side of the relatives. I’m left to watch over the house, but we have more locks than potential burglars in our neighborhood and I know it’s just Dad’s excuse to not let his folks see me. He’s been giving me weird looks all year long and I think he’s catching on to my little secret. Why is everyone such a homophobe? I feel like I have to hate myself for being this way.

“You don’t have to hate yourself,” Ryan assures me as wesit down at our usual burger joint. I asked him to hang out; like I care if the house gets robbed. “Don’t be like me.”

“Well, you don’t have to hate yourself, either.”

“I know.” He can’t look me in the eye as he says this.

“Hey, Ry?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I—never mind, it’s crazy.”

“Spit it out.”

“Can I crash at your place tonight?”

“Why? Is widdle Cartwer lonewy?”

“Shut up. Please don’t talk like that. It creeps me out.”

“That makes two of us. And sure, you can crash at my place if you don’t mind a messy apartment. Wanna go home with me after this?”

“Really? You sure? Maybe you heard me wrong.”

He looks like he’s trying hard not to hit me. “Do you want me to say no? Because I can say no in at least seven languages.”

“You nerd.” I laugh.“But can I make a quick stop at my house? I wanna bring some stuff. And chips. We have lots of chips.”

“Whatever. I’ll wait for you at the station, and bring a DVD or don’t bother showing up.”

“I’ll bring a Disney movie then.”

“I don’t even wanna ask.”

“I have a younger sister!”

“Wasn’t asking, Carter.”

On the bus ride to his apartment later that day, I make the mistake of asking Ryan how he convinced his parents to let him live alone. One look at his face tells me I should’ve kept my mouth shut. “I moved out—well, more like _ran away,_ really—but the landlady’s an old friend of Mom from college so I knew where to go.Mom’s nice enough to send me money every month,” he explains. I stop talkingfor the rest of the trip and I hold his hand. I’m aware of the other passengers giving us weird looks but I don’t really care. They don’t know anything. They don’t understand.

Ryan lives in an apartment complex in the far end of the city, a suburb with one-way streets barely big enough for a car to pass through. We get off at the station five blocks away because this is as far as buses can go. It’s not really a terribly long walk to his place but I still think it’s a pain to have to do it everyday. We pass a bakery on the way and Ryan buys cinnamon rolls because he knows I love those. I also buy a small roll of cake—it’s the firsttime I’m visiting and I want it to be special.

“Do we really need a cake?” he asks. “I think you just want to eat cake.”

“It’s _half_ a roll, Ry. It’ll be in our bellies before we know it. Just admit you like chocolate and it makes you happy.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Your nose is getting longer, Pinocchio. By the way, that’s the movie I brought. Don’t ask me why Pinocchio; I don’t know either.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re weird? ‘Cause you are.”

“All the time, Ry. All the fucking time.” We laugh, and it feels great to hear him doing it.

The complex is three storeys tall and hideously yellow. Maybe it was a lot brighter in the past but now it looks like a bad mix of barf and rotten lemons. Ryan warns me not to look at it too long or I might get sick. We’re coming from behind the building and I spot a woman in a red shirt and faded chinos dumping trash into an incinerator outside.

“The tree-huggers at National Geographic aren’t gonna like that.”

“Trash collectors don’t come here because of the narrow streets. If we don’t burn our garbage, we have to take them to the dump site at entrance, right around where we got off. I don’t know about you but I’m not dragging bags stuffed with crap all the way there.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” I admit.

Ryan waves to the woman. She nods and retreats inside. “The landlady,” he explains. “She acts like she’s always on her period but she’s nice enough. Just don’t ask her how old she is.”

“Lemme guess—you asked her that?”

“Yeah. Pretty dumb of me.”

“So, how old _is_ she?”

“Like hell I know. All she told me was how rude I was. Thirty minutes of nothing but how rude I am. That lady can talk.”

The thought of Ryan being scolded is cute for some reason. I laugh.

His room’s on the second floor, last one down the hall, rather far from the stairs. I’d be lying if I say I’m not thinking of pinning him down on his bed and having my way with him, but I’ve never really “done the nasty,” as Landon would put it, with a woman, much less another guy. I wouldn’t know where to begin.

“Just put your bag down anywhere, Cart. I’ll get some plates.”

“I knew you were excited about that cake.”

“Shut up or I’ll eat the whole damn thing.”

A good chunk of Ryan’s room is taken up by bookshelves. He has two of them standing back-to-back and I have to wonder how he managed to get both of them up to the stairs and through the door. I take out one of the paperbacks— _The Tower of Shadows_ by Drew Bowling. I’m not much of a reader but I know a fantasy title when I see one.

“Is this Drew Bowling guy famous? Never heard of him.”

“One-hit wonder. Supposed to have a sequel but it never happened. The only thing I really like about him is he started that novel in high school and got published while he was still in college. He’s something young aspiring writers can look up to, you know. I wish I could get a book deal that early.”

“With your mad writing chops, you’ll get more than that.”

“Heh, I hope you’re right.”

The cake’s surprisingly moist and sweet, not like the ones my sister tried to bake for Home Ec. Ryan keeps getting flustered when I glance at him. He’ll never admit he likes it—the cake, _not_ my glancing—a guy has to protect his pride after all.

After eating, I ask Ryan if I can tattoo him. I whipped up a quick batch of henna paste at home before coming here and the walk to the station plus the bus ride was enough time to let it set. I’ve prepared myself to hear him say no but instead he just sheds his shirt and points to his chest.

“Put it here where nobody can see. I don’t want my doctors or teachers giving me crap about it.”

I think this is my first time seeing his naked body and I’m a horribleperson for blatantly staring. He’s lean but there’s enough fat on him that I can just barely see the lines of his muscles. If he gets out more, go to a gym maybe, he’ll be rocking abs in no time. His torso’s as hairless as a baby’s and his nipples are pink like the cotton candy at carnivals. This is probably a bad comparison because I might be tempted to see if they _taste_ like cotton candy, too.

There’s also the scar on his shoulder where he was stabbed nine years ago, but I try not to look at it. It’s barely noticeable on his pale skin but when I _do_ notice it, I remember things I’d rather not think about.

“Can you do a queen of the night? Above my heart maybe?” he asks.There’s a look in his eyes that makes me think he’ll get very sad if I say no. Problem is I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“A what?”

He half-smiles. “C’mon, let’s Google some pictures.”

We use his computer to print out references. Turns out the “queen of the night” is a term fora cactus flower that blooms only at night and wilts by the time the sun rises. It’s sad enough that it only lives for less than half a day, but add the fact that it only blooms about once a year and you get a very depressing flower. It’s beautiful, though. The stark white petals may be bland compared to a rose or a sunflower but there’s still something about them that pulls your eyes in.

“Ry, this flower’s making me sad,” I admit.

“I know, right? That’s why I like it. It blooms when there’s likely nobody around to see it, and then it dies before anyone gets the chance to. Like a big ‘fuck you’ to the world, sucks for it that it’s missing out. Sometimes the most beautiful things are the simplest ones, and this queen deserves to be beautiful with the short reign it has. Heh, am I even making sense here? I’m such a nutcase.”

“No, I get it. Really. It sort of suits you, Shakespeare.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. I just hope I don’t wake up tomorrow to find you dead like this flo—Ow!”

“Keep making jokes like that and you’re the one who’s gonna be dead.”

“Alright, alright. You’re so touchy, Ms. Queen of the Grouch—Ow! Quit it or Imma hit you back so hard you’ll— _that hurts dammit_!”

I spend more time wrestling with him on the bed than applying the tattoo but I like it better that way. I get my fantasy of pinning Ryan down but I can’t really have my way with him and he’s smug about it. The cheeky bastard even smiles when he realizes how confused I am about the whole situation. Sometimes I wonder if he knows I see him in that way. I don’t want to think about it because I don’t want to be disappointed if it turns out he doesn’t.

“Thanks, Ry.”

“What did I do?”

“For being okay with it. For not thinking I’m gross or weird.”

For the second time today, he can’t look me in the eye. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

“For what?”

“For visiting.”

“Huh? I’m being a bother and you’re thanking me? Weirdo.”

“No, seriously, thanks for coming. This might be the last—Fuck, that stuff’s cold!” he complains as I apply the first few lines of ink, cutting himself off. “And do you really use a squeeze bottle for this?”

“Everyone has their own method. Some people use toothpicks, others brushes, medicine droppers, and stuff like that, depending on how thick or thin the paste you made is. Squeeze bottles are convenient, and I can change the size of the tip to make different lines. I have ones ranging from .5mm to .9.”

“God, and I thought _I_ was the geek here.”

“Very funny. You were saying? This is your last—?

“Never mind. I’m nuts.”

“Glad you finally realize that.”

“You ass.” Both of us start laughing.

We run out of things to talk (or argue) about and the tattoo is finished in silence. Somewhere between resting my hand and noticing Ryan’s eyes were closed, a little voice spoke in my head. “Kiss him,” it commanded. So I do—a quick yet passionate meeting of our lips—and I could almost swear I feel him kissing back. When I break away, I see Ryan’s hazel eyes fixed on me, and the strangest thing is I don’t really regret any of it. If anything, I’m happy I finally did it, and Ryan probably is as well because he smiles at me before pinching my nose.

Hands cramped from an hour of careful inking and heart still racing from what I just did, I collapse on top of his body, careful to avoid the still wet tattoo, nuzzling my head into the crook of his collarbone. This is probably the only time I’ll ever be shameless enough to do this. I wish I could take my shirt off ‘cause I really want to feel his skin against mine.

“You tired, Carter?”

“Exhausted. Sorry if I’m heavy.”

“I told you, you’re not fat.”

“Thank God I’m not.”

“Amen to that.”

Ryan’s soft and warm, and he smells like cinnamon the way he always does. I have to try very hard not to lick his skin. Or get an erection. I’m a horrible person like that. To my surprise, he slings his right arm around my back in a lazy hug.

“Sorry, Ry, I know this is weird.”

“I told you, I don’t find you gross.”

“You didn’t exactly _tell_ me anything. You clammed up, Tom _Clam-c_ y.”

“First, that was fucking lame. Second, I didn’t _need_ to say it out loud. I know you understand.”

I breathe in his scent and manage a chuckle. “Yeah, I do.”

We end up falling asleep in this position, never really getting the chance to watch the movie or eat the chips I brought. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a smiling Ryan greeting me “Good morning” and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I don’t even care if it’s only a few minutes past 5 AM and the rest of my body is still asleep; I could look at him forever. I wonder if this is how newly-weds feel, realizing you woke up with the right person next to you.

“Who’s Landon,” he suddenly asks.

“Huh? My teammate from the basketball team. Where’d you hear that name?”

“From you. You kept mumbling ‘Landon, Landon,’ in your sleep and asking him if he hates you. I wanted to pour cold water on your head to wake you up but I’m not _that_ big of a dick.”

“Wow, thanks for not being an ass for once.”

“You owe me one.”Sarcasm level over 9000: that’s the Ryan I know and love. “Seriously though, the way you talk about him makes it sound like you two broke up.”

“We didn’t! We weren’t like that!”

“Sure you weren’t.” He shoots me a teasing look as he gets up and fishes for a shirt from his cabinet.

“I’m serious, dude. I just hate how he’s been avoiding me lately. Makes me think my life’s becoming a bad Facebook account again, where people keep unfriending me. Whatever; screw him. I’m happy as long as I have you.”

“Are you really happy like this?”

“Well, yeah. I’m hanging out with my best bud. How can I not be happy?” _Best bud_ , huh? I’m really trying to avoid mentioning what happened last night.

“Lemme change the question. Are you happy or are you comfortable?”

Ryan goes on to explain how he read somewhere that there’s a difference between being happy and being comfortable, and that people tend to confuse comfort for happiness.This guy reads the weirdest things.”Think about it, Cart,” he says. Ryan has his back turned to me, staring out his window, maybe waiting for the sun to rise. What kind of face is he making at this moment?

“There’s still some time to think,” he mumbles, much like he did before at G-Spot. I hate it when he’s being vague like this—he’s almost as bad as the NPCs in RPGs who give cryptic clues about where you’re supposed to go next. Sorry, gamer geeking out here.

I get up and hook my arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. We wait for the sun together.

I notice the design on his chest has settled into a nice, deep brown color, giving it a sort of old photograph look. Thankfully, I didn’t move too much in my sleep and the queen of the night wasn’t smudged. As the first few rays of the morning hit us, I whisper “Our queen lived to see the sunrise” in Ryan’s ears. I have to laugh at myself. His cheesy poetics are rubbing off on me.

“Yeah, she says it’s beautiful.” For the umpteenth time since yesterday, Ryan smiles at me and I’m wishing he’d always be like this.

If I had known this would be my last time seeing him, would I have done things differently?

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually my (sadly) unfinished novel during NaNoWriMo 2013. I'm still in the process of editing it and adding the missing parts. Not really expecting anyone to read it, but I'm very thankful if anyone does.


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